


It took a wild heart to tame mine

by lisachan



Series: Leoverse [309]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sex Workers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:27:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29585136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lisachan/pseuds/lisachan
Summary: Blaine must have developed some sort of weird radar, because he keeps walking into Casey's office just when he's about to have a panic attack. He also has his own way to deal with it, it appears, and today he's going to make sure Casey understandswhyhis special kind of therapy works so well.
Relationships: Blaine Anderson/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Leoverse [309]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/30541
Kudos: 2
Collections: COWT - Clash Of the Writing Titans/Chronicles Of Words and Trials





	It took a wild heart to tame mine

**Author's Note:**

> **WARNING:** This story is an **AU** from the original 'verse. What happens in here has little to none correlation with what happens in Leonard Karofsky-Hummel VS The world or Broken Heart Syndrome. The characters involved are (mostly) the same, but situations and relationships between them may be completely different.
> 
> Can you even believe that there's no tag for Hookers!AUs around here?!

The first time Blaine kissed Casey, Casey was on the verge of having a panic attack, and that kiss stopped it before it could happen. Not that he ever told the man, of course – he would never. Blaine’s ego is already inflated enough without him giving it a final boost that would make it the size of a whole continent. But that was what was going to happen hadn’t Blaine been there. He’d have been caught in a loop, as it always happens, and he would’ve freaked out. He would have lost it and he would have started screaming and he would have hurt himself. 

It’s been a couple months since that day, and Casey has forgotten what set him off in that particular occasion (he always forgets, it’s like a safety mechanism in his brain, whenever something’s ugly he stores it away, where he doesn’t have to look at it), but he’s sure it must have been dealing with some client. It’s always clients that do it for him, and they don’t even always know what they’re causing. Sometimes they don’t even act ugly on purpose, it’s just that they are what they are, selfish, dirty men searching for selfish, dirty pleasures, and they’re used to be like that, they feel entitled to be like that because of the kind of services Casey offers. They think that just because they’re in the offices of a whorehouse, no matter how modern, regulated and out of the ordinary as this is, they’re allowed to behave like whoresons. 

It’s not their fault, Casey supposes. Or, well, yeah, it is. And he hates them all for being disgusting like they are, every single one of them, but it is only partly their fault. They have been raised and they have thrived within a system that favored them. A system that taught them that success lies in how despicable you can be. That you can climb whatever power staircase if you’re just petty enough, dishonest enough, arrogant enough.

That’s how most men like them work, and it would be idiotic to expect them to play a different game, when they only know the rules of one – the one they’re always winning at.

Despite knowing that, Casey doesn’t think he will ever get used to it, or get over it, for that matter. He used to think it was because it was too soon, back in the past, when he started handling the house as its owner but still he freaked out when he had to handle a particularly unpleasant client, even though the handling was strictly financial and administrative in nature. He believed it would pass in time, that at some point he’d forget what it meant to face these people from the ground instead than from the top, and he’d be able not to break into a million pieces as soon as they left the room. But then it kept happening, over and over again, and at some point he got it, and he accepted it: he is never going to be able to do that. He is never going to be able to face an ugly client, someone who asks for much more than he should feel entitled to demand, someone who asks for something that is way beyond the boundaries of what Casey feels prepared to consent to, even though these clients ask for those things not from him but from his boys, and feel perfectly fine at the end of it. That’s just never ever going to happen. He is always and forever going to work through this the same way: he will hold onto his sanity for as long as he needs to say no to the shitty bastard and then kick him out of his office, and then he will break. 

When he breaks, he usually prefers to be alone. But somehow Blaine Anderson must have developed a radar that he uses to sense with uncanny and kinda creepy precision when he starts freaking out, and every time it happens he just appears.

Today is no different.

One of the people who triggers his freaking out the easiest certainly is Mr. Royal – and yes, that truly is his name – Davenport. Roy, as he modestly prefers to be called, is the face that appears on dictionaries next to the word asshole. He is one of those sad, depraved individuals who take great pride and pleasure in always being the worst version of themselves.

He could afford to ask for any boy in Casey’s house – not that Casey would let him anywhere near anyone of them, but still, he could afford to _ask_ – but he doesn’t want _them_. Like any good spoiled brat, he only wants what he cannot have, and what he wants is Casey.

Casey used to be a prostitute, years ago. But he had one goal, and that goal was to emerge from that shit pit, and own the goddamned place. He put aside anything and everything he could afford to put aside, and it took years and it took convincing a very generous, very old patron to finance him, but he managed in the end. He bought the place off Norman, the guy who owned it before, and he changed its face until it was unrecognizable. Anyone who ever used to spend time at Norman’s place wouldn’t have a clue that Casey’s house is what was born out of its wreckage, if no one told them. And when he started on his journey, when he laid down the plans to change every single detail of this place to make sure no one would ever link it to its past, Casey swore that he would never have sex for money, ever again. And he would never be subjected to the cruel whims of men who believe there’s nothing they aren’t allowed to do just because they can pay for it.

Roy is one of those men. He is the very personification of that concept, that stinking privilege coming from being rich, and white, and cis, and straight – because _yes_ , Roy is as straight as they come. He’s not interested in boys, even though he fucks them. What he’s interested in is pushing them down into submission, ravishing them. He takes no romantic or aesthetic pleasure in sex with males, he’s only in it for the delirious sense of greatness he feels whenever he manages to break one down, to violate him in the most intimate way.

That’s fun for Roy. And Casey despises that, he finds it revolting.

He made that clear to Roy the first time the asshole passed by to off-handedly try and buy him off. He walked into Casey’s office unannounced, without even bothering taking at appointment or just calling first. He strode into the room and headed straight for the desk, behind which Casey sat, handling the appointment requests for the boys on his custom-designed app on his computer.

He unceremoniously slammed a bag bursting up with money just inches from his hand and, grinning, he unzipped it, showing its content. “I hear you refuse to fuck for money,” he said, “I’ve come to change that.”

Casey looked down to the bag, then up at him. He called security right away, and Roy was escorted out of the building as unceremoniously as he had landed that bag on Casey’s desk, but that didn’t stop him from coming back for another try, and another try, and another try.

Royal’s will is unbreakable – he genuinely believes, in his blind confidence, that someday, at some point, Casey’s gonna surrender. That he will take his money and he will bend over, and Roy will be able to say he won, that he broke into the most unavailable ass in town. Oh, how proud he’d be of that, how satisfied. He wouldn’t think twice about the pain he would inflict Casey, he wouldn’t care about the humiliation he would put him through to obtain ten seconds of pleasure. Roy does never think about any of those things – he thinks only of himself, what he can do, what he can gain. 

Many men have asked for Casey to have sex with them, over the years, and with the sole exception of Blaine, Casey always said no. Now, Roy doesn’t know about Blaine – no one knows about Blaine – and so, every time he walks through that door, he believes he has a chance at something no one else has access to. And he tries. Every time, he tries. He insists and he pushes and he uses all kinds of sad, blunt weapons. He speaks dirty, he tells Casey he knows he wants him, he offers more and more money, he threatens his brother. There is nothing he wouldn’t try, and Casey cannot _stand_ that.

It is war, every time. Not saying no. That’s easy. He doesn’t want to have sex with Royal, he finds him vomit-inducing. Rejecting him is a piece of cake and it leaves on his tongue the same pleasantly sweet aftertaste a cake would leave, too.

It is the effort it takes to keep his composure while he does it, that’s what wears him out. Casey hates Royal, he would kill him with his own hands if he didn’t have anything to lose, but he does. He has a house and boys he must take care of. He has a business, and he wants it to thrive. Most importantly, he has a brother that he wants to protect, and if he ended up in jail who would protect Cody? Who would keep him safe from men such as Royal Davenport, who else would make sure he can sleep safe at night, that he’s well-fed and medicated when he needs to be?

He cannot retaliate, not ever, against Roy or any other piece of shit who walks through that door believing he has a right to impose himself on him just because he likes a challenge and he wants to be where he supposes no one else has been in quite a while. If he let go, if he ever, just once, lost his composure in front of one of those men, he would jump at their throats, he would rip them apart bit by bit, he would skin them alive, tear their insides out of their bodies and pour them in their own mouths, to choke them with them.

And so, every time one of those idiotic assholes come by, he has to watch himself, and he has to hold everything in. He has to smile and coldly decline and never lose his cool and constantly pretend he doesn’t want to murder them. And it is _exhausting_. And it’s the tension of it that always breaks him down. Whenever they leave, he collapses. The nervous tension that kept him standing dissipates and everything pours out of him, and he starts shaking, and he starts gasping, and he starts clinging madly to every surface not to ruinously fall to the ground, and he starts screaming, and then he starts crying, and he hates that. He _hates_ it, he hates how much power assholes like Roy Davenport have on him. They don’t see it, because he won’t allow it, but he knows. He pretends not to, but they own him. They will always own him, as long as he can’t stop breaking for them.

There is only one thing he hates more than breaking for these assholes, and that thing is for Blaine to see him like that.

Blaine Anderson is a mysterious, unfathomable, incomprehensible, ridiculous man. He has everything he wants and needs, and he wants and needs for nothing else. He faces life with such unbearable lightness Casey detests him, every now and then, because he envies him so much. 

Blaine doesn’t have an agenda, he’s not morbidly curious, his interest in Casey is so blatantly genuine sometimes he looks like an idiot.

He never tried to have sex with him because he knew no one else was having him. As a matter of fact, he never tried to have sex with him, period. When it happened, it was just because it happened. Roy, the panic attack, him walking nonchalantly into his office and then stopping on the threshold, looking at him with deep concern. His hands around his shoulders. His lips against his own lips.

“It’s alright,” he whispered against his mouth, one soothing kiss after the other, “It’s perfectly fine. You’re not alone. Keep breathing. You’re not alone in this.”

His face covered in tears, Casey had kept crying all through the panic attack, progressively moving closer to him until he found himself resting with all his weight against his chest. Breathing heavily, he whispered “You weren’t supposed to see me like this.”

Blaine ignored him. “Just tell me what I can do for you,” he said.

Casey just climbed on top of him and let the warmth of his body guide him.

Today promises to be the same. Blaine walks into the office and doesn’t see him, because Casey’s crouching behind his desk, holding himself as tight as he can, a little cannonball that cannot be shot, cannot explode, but he senses where he is and he immediately reaches out for him as soon as he’s close enough, kneeling on the ground next to him. “Hey,” he says, “Jesus. I came as soon as Sam told me Davenport was planning on passing by. I was hoping I’d anticipate him.”

“You never do,” Casey answers through his chattering teeth.

“I’m sorry,” Blaine sighs, placing a hand between his shoulder blades and stroking him slowly. “Was he unpleasant?”

“When is he ever anything else?”

“I’m sorry,” Blaine’s hand stops. Casey wraps himself up smaller, and Blaine comes a little closer, pulling him against his own chest. “How do you feel?”

“Why do you fucking ask?!” Casey’s voice breaks as it rises, and he gasps as he cries louder, unable to stop his shaking, “You know how I feel! You’ve seen me like this already! A thousand times!” way more times than Casey ever thought he would allow.

“Case…” Blaine calls him, and Casey can hear the _calm down_ in his voice, even though Blaine’s wise enough not to actually voice it. “It’s hardly been a thousand times. Don’t worry, your reputation is safe.”

“Fuck you!” Casey yells, and then adds, hissing, “And fuck my reputation. I hate this— I fucking hate this! Who are these fucking people?!” he pants, struggling to get back up on his feet and failing, and falling on his ass on the floor, hitting his back against the side of the desk, “And who the fuck are you?! Why do you fucking matter, you as a fucking category, you shitty people who come here searching for boys to fuck and fuck up and fuck over, and why the fuck do _you_ as a person mean anything, why do I keep letting in?! Why am I even _telling you_ these things, you obnoxious, ludicrous, retarded son of a—”

He doesn’t manage to finish the sentence, all through his panting and his wheezing, because Blaine gets he’s asphyxiating himself before he can get it, and he leaps to his feet, pulling him up and sitting him on the desk to kiss him.

Casey’s voice fades out into a trickle, yelling turns to muffled whispers as Blaine’s lips press against his own, forcing them open, pushing his tongue into his mouth. Casey complains, pushes his closed fists against Blaine’s chest, pretends that he wants to break free when all he wants is to stop thinking, stop obsessing about this. About the weight of clients in his life, about still having to handle them, about the space Blaine keeps digging for himself even though, Casey knows it, it’s inconsequential for him. And that’s another thing he wants to stop obsessing over, knowing this is much more meaningful for him than it will ever be for Anderson. Not because he feels anything for the man beyond an intrigued curiosity, honestly, but because letting him in has a meaning, letting him touch him and kiss him and feel him like that means something. It means he needs this kind of support and comfort so much he will take him from him. He will accept it, even though he swore when he left the room where he worked before that he never would again.

“Stop doing that,” Blaine whispers against his lips.

Casey frowns, refusing to open his eyes. “I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re tense, and you’re shutting down,” Blaine insists, speaking with the voice of a man who knows what he’s talking about, “Stop doing that. Stop shutting down. Let me in.”

“I don’t wanna let you in.”

“You do.”

“This—” Casey hisses, biting Blaine’s bottom lip with furious hunger, “This is not about wanting you.”

“I know that perfectly well,” Blaine stops kissing him, but he doesn’t stop touching him. He cups his face in his hands, keeping him still, keeping his eyes locked with Casey’s. “Listen to me. _I_ know very clearly what this is about. Do you?”

And Casey doesn’t know how it’s possible, but he didn’t before, and he does now, instead, as he looks at Blaine’s hazelnut eyes and somehow finds himself mirrored into them. It isn’t about the clients and it isn’t about the two of them, it’s not about the panic attacks, or the tears and the shaking, it’s never been about that.

This is all about the wanting. It’s about something soothing that he never received before, and that he wanted desperately. It’s about something he doesn’t have the words to ask for, something he yearns for on a deeper level than the mere surface.

He thought this was all about pain, but it is not. It’s all about pleasure.

He stops wheezing. He stops panting. As his breathing calms down, his crying subsides, and he swallows and then exhales a shaky breath as he throws his arms around Blaine’s neck, feverishly pulling him in for a hungry kiss. Blaine picks his pace up immediately, probably because, as he said, he knew exactly what this was about, and he has known since the very beginning. He pushes himself between Casey’s thighs, making him part them, and as soon as they’re close enough their crotches collide and a spark of wild pleasure gives Casey a shiver that makes him whimper. He hadn’t even noticed how horny he was, and it’s astounding, because this is not the first time this happens, it’s not the first time Blaine Anderson finds him in tears and decides to cure his sadness with a good old fuck, but it _is_ the first time that Casey feels conscious about it, that he feels like he knows the meaning of it.

He starts tugging at the man’s clothes, wanting to feel him, wanting to _see_ him, too, something that never happened before. He can feel lust bubbling underneath his skin, and it’s a new feeling, something he never felt before and never thought he could ever feel. He thought he lacked the ability for it, but, well, it turns out he doesn’t. That he couldn’t before because the automatically linked sex with something awful, identified it with pain and misery, but sex can be different, sex can be this: wildly grabbing and pulling and rubbing against another person in a fiery search for release.

He gasps as he breaks the kiss to handle Blaine’s shirt better. He tears it open, a couple of mother-of-pearl buttons flying in arches all across the room, and the bare chest of the man emerges from the fine cotton of that elegant piece of clothing, and he looks motherfucking _good_. Casey’s mouth waters and he attacks him, gluing his mouth to his chest, biting and licking as he slides up from his pecs to his collarbones. He bites those too, hard, sinking his teeth, and Blaine hisses and sticks his big hand in his hair, pulling at them. “Stop biting,” he says, but he says it like he doesn’t mean it, and Casey bites harder, which is enough for Blaine to forcefully push him down to lie against the surface of his desk.

Casey thought he wouldn’t like this – that being forced in such a position, so suddenly, so roughly, would awaken memories best left asleep in the back of his mind, but surprisingly it doesn’t happen. Maybe it’s because Blaine’s scent, which is overwhelming, now, and everywhere around him, makes it impossible for his brain to go back to the horrible place where he was, mentally, during those years of abuse. Blaine’s scent is linked to orgasms and exhausting pleasure, it’s linked to teasing and release, it’s linked, ultimately, to feeling fucking good. And there’s no memory bad enough to tarnish that.

He lifts his hips up off the table just in time for when Blaine’s fingers curl around the waistband of his pants. When the man starts pulling, they slide off his legs easily, as though he was covered in butter. It’s nice, and Blaine’s fingers are warm, and his skin is hot, and Casey wants more. He breathes heavily as he covers Blaine’s neck in little angry bites, and Blaine laughs and then moans, a sound Casey never really heard coming from him. It feels weirdly powerful to make this man feel good to the point of moaning, because Blaine’s always so self-controlled and confident it is kind of huge to force him out of his usual perfect composure.

Instinctively, Casey reaches down with one hand. As Blaine grinds up against him, making him bounce a little up on the desk, he feels him, tracing the outline of his cock through his pants with his fingers. It’s big and it’s hard, pressing stubbornly as it does against the fabric to be let out. Casey unzips Blaine’s pants and pushes them down, together with his underpants, and his cock springs out, bouncing against his thigh, the skin soft and warm and smooth. He finds himself holding it with no hesitation, he finds himself stroking it, pulling playfully at it, he finds himself enjoying it, enjoying the feeling and Blaine’s soft gasps.

He licks his lips and turns his head, whispering in Blaine’s ears. This must be at least their tenth fucks, but they never spoke during sex before. “You feel fucking great,” he says, honesty burning through years of suppression and holding back.

“Mmh,” Blaine nods slowly, the tip of his nose rubbing against Casey’s cheek. “I can feel better.”

“I know,” Casey grins and parts his legs a little wider, pulling at Blaine’s cock to make him come closer. “What are you waiting for, then?”

Blaine scoffs a short laughter against his neck and reaches for the back pocket of his pants. He grabs a condom, tears the package open and wears it with a nonchalant, fluid movement that’s somehow hypnotic, and that Casey follows with thirsty eyes, swallowing down hard.

It takes Blaine two seconds to be all over him again, and as soon as he does Casey immediately notices that there’s a new strength to his movements, a new kind of hunger. He moves harder and faster, he pushes and pulls at Casey unceremoniously, making him lift his legs, propping them up on one of his own shoulders. He holds them closed for more friction, hugging them with one arm around their knees, and then he thrusts up inside him, the vaguely lubed surface of the condom making penetration smoother, a little less painful.

Casey hisses nonetheless, throwing his head back, feeling his own body spread up to make room for Blaine’s cock. It’s burning and it’s challenging and it’s okay, it’s how it’s supposed to be. He moans, and then he bites at Blaine’s lips as he reaches down, placing a hand on his hip, scratching his skin lightly to make him feel a little bit of that same burning feeling. Blaine drives his cock through his opening mercilessly, following a steady pace that doesn’t even let him breathe properly. With every thrust Casey slides up against the surface of the table, then Blaine retreats and sliding down Casey goes, only to be pushes up once again with the next assault. It’s a nice kind of rolling, he feels lost in the middle of the ocean and if he closes his eyes he can almost believe he truly is, and it’s peaceful, and he’s featherweight, and he feels satisfied.

Blaine doesn’t stop and Casey starts begging him to just go on, he doesn’t _want_ to do it, he doesn’t feel like he _needs_ to rile him up, but it feels good to give Blaine that, to make him feel desperately wanted, because with his movements and his relentless thrusts and his greedy kisses Blaine is doing the same for him: he’s making him feel desperately wanted. And that’s good, because what he truly hated, he finds out suddenly, of sex when he was a whore, was the loneliness of it. The isolation within it, that made the pain echo that much louder. He was alone in loathing it, just as the random men who were fucking him were alone in liking it. There was nothing between them, nothing but the pain, and that was what made the pain unbearable.

This is different, though. There’s something, there’s a connection, most importantly, both Blaine and him want the same thing. And they’re riding together towards it.

This might be casual, and it might be inconsequential, and it might not matter much, but it is _something_. And Casey clings hard onto that something, onto that tiny but sturdy rope Blaine’s throwing at him. He holds onto it and he uses it to pull himself out of the shit pit. He pulls himself out of the darkness and the pain and the panic and the tears, and his pleasure swells and swells, like a bubble being blown up, and like a bubble it explodes, and Casey yells as it pours out of him, shooting in warm, transparent droplets all over his own stomach, pooling up in his navel.

He breathes deeply, looking down at the trails of come all across his skin with sleep-heavy eyes, drawing swirls with it as he drags them around all over his stomach with his fingertips while Blaine just does not _stop moving_. “Fuck, that’s hot,” the man pants as he looks down at him playing with his own orgasm, “Don’t stop.”

Casey snickers and teases him by dragging his come around all over his navel to trace a vague, tilted, messy B all around his belly button, and Blaine lets out a deep throaty sound as he comes at the sight of it, almost bending over with how powerful his orgasm is. For just a second, Casey wishes Blaine wasn’t wearing a condom, so that he could feel him come and fill him up, but then he lets that thought settle down and dissipate, and decides it’s okay if he’s wearing one, anyway. Blaine’s no less of a whore than any of his boys is, than he himself used to be, and it’s safer if they keep each other protected during these mad things that keep randomly happen between them.

Blaine chuckles too, after a little while, finally letting go of his legs. He’s still buried deep inside him and Casey doesn’t want him to pull out right away, so he doesn’t complain and he doesn’t even speak of it, lest Blaine takes any comment on the matter as an invitation to leave. “Look at the mess you’ve made here,” Blaine says, amused, pointing at Casey’s come well spread all over his skin, “You want me to clean it up?”

Casey laughs out loud and bends his legs, placing both feet on the man’s chest to push him away, suddenly deciding that joke deserved a sudden pull out. “Disgusting,” he says, “You’re the worst. Get away from me.”

“Hey, I was just trying to be of service,” Blaine laughs, taking off the condom and tying it up before he bends over to throw it in the bin underneath Casey’s desk.

“Don’t leave that there!” Casey protests, and Blaine laughs again.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take out the trash when I leave.”

“Good boy,” Casey smirks.

“Every mother I’ve ever met always thought I was husband material,” Blain smirks too.

Casey shakes his head as he pulls himself sitting up, a short laughter ringing in his voice. “This isn’t a place to talk about marriage, ever,” he says, “With me or with my boys. You better stop before your thoughts ever go there.”

“You can’t stop love when it shows, Case,” Blaine points out with a soft smile.

Casey tilts his head, insisting stubbornly. “I never believed that.” But then he breathes in and out, and he enjoys how good it feels to be relaxed to do that fully, inhaling through his nose, filling up his lungs and then exhaling through his mouth. “Thank you, anyway,” he says as Blaine pulls his pants up and buttons them closed. “You’re a good man. I never say it. Of any man. Usually, no man deserves it. But you do, so, yeah, there’s that.”

Blaine turns to look at him, and there’s warmth in his eyes, and there’s patience, and some sort of weird affection that Casey fears might be misplaced with him, but that he’s going to accept nonetheless. “You misunderstand me, Case,” Blaine says softly, “I don’t fuck you out of the goodness of my heart – I fuck you because you’re hot, and I like fucking you.”

“Of course you do,” Casey snaps back right away, “What’s not to like about me?” he grins.

Blaine laughs, combing his hair back. “Exactly,” he nods, “You’re so full of qualities. Modesty being the first, for sure.”

“Modesty, Anderson, is for people who have nothing beside it,” Casey shrugs, jumping off the desk and tidying himself up, as he amusedly watches Blaine button up his shirts and leaving it half open because of the missing buttons that are surely hiding in the corners of this office, and will be for quite some time. “Me? I have plenty other things to be proud of. I’m strong, I’m independent, I’m a business genius, I own an empire and I’m barely 22 years old, and to top it off I’m fucking handsome. I don’t need to be modest.”

Blaine chuckles, heading towards the door. “You’re damn right you don’t,” he admits. Then he stops on the threshold, one hand already on the door handle. “You’re alright, aren’t you?”

Casey almost blushes. Almost. “I’m alright, yeah. I’m gonna have to start paying you for this, at some point,” he concedes with a small smile.

“I don’t accept money for my good deeds,” Blaine smirks, “But I might be willing to accept discount coupons for your house’s services, there’s a couple boys I—”

“Don’t even think about it,” Casey laughs wholeheartedly, as it almost never happens, “My boys deserve to be paid in full for their service. Nothing you could ever do to me will change that.”

Blaine lets out one last chuckle, opening the door. “Fine, then. I’ll make do with what you already gave me.”

They don’t need to say anything else. They both know what they exchanged was worth more than any kind of payment.

**Author's Note:**

> COWT  
> This story was written for the second week of COWT #11 @ landedifandom.net  
> Prompt: M1, "Soldi" by Mahmood, two verse of which recite "Mi chiedi come va, come va, come va, sai già come va, come va, come va", which roughly translates as "You ask me how I feel, how I feel, how I feel, you already know how I feel, how I feel, how I feel", which I feel describes way better, and in much less words than I used, what passes between Casey and Blaine, which have my favorit- _est_ relationship in this AU. Also, money of some kind had to be involved or discussed, and, well, that's why the end.


End file.
